


Sursum

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty





	1. Chapter 1

PG  
IDW  
Drift/Wing Drift/OC (Cloudburst)  
eventual pnp (not this chapter)  
Yyyyyyyyeah. This is a total fail of a kink meme prompt fill. I'm failing at kink meme again. The req was for Drift and another jet from NCC with a possible threesome. It got plotty, plot took over and ate the kink part, spat it out, and then buried it. There is a metric ton of headcanon here.  
  
“Drift?” Wing sounded hesitant. Drift turned around from where he had been glowering over the landscape from Wing’s balcony. Wing stood in the archway, a larger blue armored jet standing behind him, optics green and curious. “I’d like you to meet Cloudburst.”

Drift flattened his mouth to what he hoped was a neutral expression. “Cloudburst.” His optics asked the question.

“I-I have to go a meeting,” Wing said. “And…I thought maybe Cloudburst could keep you company.”  
The smile flashed and faded, an obvious cover. Right. Drift could figure this one: they didn’t trust him, figured he needed a babysitter, a guard.

“Company,” Drift echoed. Just to make the point. Wing smiled, innocent. Either he was a brilliant actor or he really believed that this was just about ‘company.’ He turned his attention to this Cloudburst, who was certainly studying him in return, optics traveling over the divide between Drift’s white repairs and his Decepticon armor. Cloudburst twitched, as he realized Drift had caught him staring.

“Greetings,” Cloudburst murmured. He inclined his head.

Wing hovered between the two of them , worried, as if just now realizing this maybe wasn’t such a great idea. “Cloudburst…he used to live in Iacon. I thought perhaps you—“

“Vos,” Drift corrected, flatly. “He lived in Vos.” He recognized the frame type—the broad, flat wing panels, unlike Wing’s, but very like the trio of jets Megatron had recruited early in the war.

“I relocated to Iacon,” Cloudburst said, tilting his head, curious, impressed. “When the civil war erupted. I thought I could…do more there.”

Drift grunted. Wing rocked on his feet, concerned. Drift waved him off. “Go. To your silly meeting. I promise I’ll behave,” or whatever. “Besides.” He gave a blunt shrug. “He’s armed; I’m not. He can fly; I  
can’t.” Don’t have much choice, really.

Wing’s face fell. “Drift, it’s not like that.”

Drift gave a shark’s grin. “Of course not.” He held Wing’s gaze until the gold optics broke away.

“I-I have to go,” Wing said, hands wringing uncertainly. “Cloudburst, thank you for this,” he added, trying to recover himself, nodding brusquely before he left.

[***]

Cloudburst had suggested they go out to find something to eat. Drift had shrugged, but let himself be led down to the nearest streetlevel egress, without even suggesting that Cloudburst could just fly.

“Tea,” Cloudburst said, setting a steaming glass of green liquid in front of Drift before sliding onto the seat across from Drift at the small table, his own glass in front of him. “Like we used to have in Vos.” He grinned.

Drift studied it. Did he admit he’d never had it? Would that admit too much about his past? Did he care?

“Never made it to Vos,” he said, finally.

“It was beautiful,” Cloudburst said, wistfully. He toyed with his glass. “Though I suppose we all tend to romanticize things from before the war.”

“I don’t.” Drift said. Nothing romantic about the gutters. He stared at the oval rim of his glass, mouth working. Not really Cloudburst’s fault, though. It occurred suddenly that Drift had no idea where Wing was from. It seemed a strange omission. He looked up. “Where’d Wing come from?” Other than, you know…his own special dimension where everything was white and shiny.

“Wing?” Cloudburst took a sip of his tea—small, delicate. Apparently the way it was supposed to be done. “Altihex.”

Drift froze, his hand halfway to bringing his tea to his mouth. “Explains why he hates Decepticons,” he said, quietly. Megatron’s forces had sabotaged the attitude adjustment engines that had kept the city-state in geosynchronous orbit with the planet. The floating city had burned, crashing into the planet’s surface. Drift remembered one of Megatron’s deputies comment, as it had scrolled over a news feed, flames of blue white screaming through the fallen city, that Megatron would have no mech above him.

He rubbed the purple insignia on his chassis, that the technicians had gone through such pains to reproduce in his repairs. What must Wing think every time he saw it? Did he see his city burning?

“Wing has let go of hate,” Cloudburst answered, jerking Drift back to himself. “He is, in many ways, a model to us.”

Of course. Drift hid the way his mouth twisted in the glass of the green, hot tea. It was strangely bitter, but not unpleasant and the warmth soothed its way down his intake.

“And you?” Cloudburst asked. “It’s only fair. Where are you from?”

Drift squirmed, then stopped himself. No, he had nothing to be ashamed of. That was the whole point of the Decepticons, why he had joined—that a mech could leave his roots behind, make something of himself, regardless of his money or lineage. “Gutters,” he said, his optics blue challenges to Cloudburst’s green.  
“Never saw sunlight till after the war started.”

“I can…not imagine what that was like,” Cloudburst said. Drift scoured his expression for anything like pity or contempt, but found only a strange, sad respect.

“Jet,” Drift said, after a long moment. “Different for you airframes, I think.”

Cloudburst nodded, almost relieved, as if aware he’d been treading on dangerous ground. They drank the tea in silence, Drift letting his gaze roam over the other tables. Everyone here, relaxed, unhurried, as if there was no real urgency. Of course not; there wasn’t. No war to win. Nothing but float along and be…happy. He chafed.

“Can I confess something to you, Drift?” Cloudburst lay his glass down, trailing one finger along the rim.  
They both studied the slow rotation of the finger around the edge. “I…sometimes miss combat.”

Why is he telling me this?

“Do you?”

Drift hesitated. “Miss having something to do. Being useful or something.”

Cloudburst nodded. “Yes, but…for me it was even more than that?” He seemed shy as he reached to tap a faint divot on one broad wing, contours thickened with fresher enamel. “I fitted to be a fighter/bomber. Something about…the intensity, the focus. I don’t know. The…violence.” He looked aside, as though he’d profaned something sacred.

Drift felt a feral grin twist over his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. He leaned back, propping one knee on the table, studying Cloudburst through new optics. “Power.” His hand twitched, imagining a pistol. What he could do with one here...?

Cloudburst gave an eager nod of understanding. “Not many mechs understand. Not many fought.” He dropped his gaze to his tea again.

Good a time as any to ask tacky questions, Drift thought. “Wing?”

“He fought. Once he recovered.” A moment’s hesitation, as if Cloudburst were weighing the confidence. “He was trapped in the rubble of Altihex for five days.” He gave a curt nod, before raising his glass to his mouth. “It’s why he...needs to fly sometimes.”

Cloudburst gave a sudden, sharp movement of his head, cutting off Drift’s next question just before the familiar tenor voice.

“I thought I might find you here.” Wing approached the table, resting his fingertips on the colored surface, a strange gesture, as though trying to anchor himself. “I remember how much you liked this place,” he said, smiling.

Cloudburst inclined his helm. “I figured you would. How did it go?”

The smile faded. “As well as could be expected.” A hesitation. “May I join you?”

Ridiculously polite, Drift thought, but that’s how it happened here. Cloudburst nodded, reaching one hand to squeeze Wing’s for a brief moment. Wing returned the gesture, with a warm glow of his optics before moving to the counter, the touch strangely intimate. Drift felt like an interloper.

Cloudburst caught Drift’s pointed look. He shrugged.

“You together or something?” Drift blurted.

Cloudburst cocked his head. “For a while, yes. Wing is...hard to resist.” He grinned fondly. “Turnabout being fair play and all--are you?”

Drift blanched at the question. Even though, yes, it was only fair. He managed a grunt. Cloudburst’s optics twinkled as he took another sip of his tea, before letting his gaze float over to Wing. Wing’s fingers tapped the counter, the small spines behind his neck high and tense.

“So, what’s he upset about?” Cloudburst seemed prone to chattiness. Good source of intelligence, right?

“Wing,” Cloudburst murmured, hurriedly, “must face judgment for his actions.”

“Actions--oh.” Actions. Like leaving the safety of New Crystal City. Like bringing Drift back. He shot a look at the jet’s back, the complicated tuck of his wings. But when Wing turned, a glass of something pale blue and cloudy in his hands, the smile was back in place.

“I never could get used to the taste of Vosian tea,” Wing said, settling himself on a seat. “Do you like it, Drift?”

“It’s fine,” Drift said, a little off-balance at Wing’s light tone. Maybe this whole ‘judgment’ wasn’t such a big deal. Though Dai Atlas had been pretty clear that Drift was...not his favorite mech.

Wing pushed his glass toward Drift. “This might be a bit...better than fine?” He gave a challenging wink to Cloudburst, that comfortable intimacy that made something hot and green twist in Drift’s cortex. Drift took the glass. The blue liquid was tart and sweet on his glossa.

“This from...,” he caught himself, “where you’re from?”

Wing gave a quick smile. “No, it’s a newframe’s drink,” he said, laughing. “Cloudburst likes to tease me about it.” Present tense. Drift felt a prickle of hostiity.

“Nothing wrong with it,” Drift murmured, pushing the glass back toward Wing. “Kind of like it.”

Wing’s smile took root, optics glowing. “Thank you, Drift.” And it was for more than just sliding the glass across the table. He let one finger brush over Drift’s hand. Drift allowed the touch, resisting the urge to give Wing the same comforting squeeze Cloudburst had, a flash of smug satisfaction that Wing touched him in front of his...other.

“So,” Cloudburst said, optics darting between the pair. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Wing said, mouth pushing into a pout before melting into a rare serious expression. “I am prepared to take my punishment, as always.”

“As always?” The words escaped Drift before he could stop himself. He didn’t want to be left out of this, especially if it involved him.

“I...fly.” Wing gave a nervous shrug. “It’s not allowed. It endangers the city.”

“But....”

“I’ll be fine,” Wing said, without any real confidence behind it.

“Wing,” Cloudburst said, firmly. “They haven’t decided.”

He shook his head. “No. This was,” he flinched, “egregious.” Wing buried his frown in his drink.

Drift felt his brow contract, ducking his head to hide it under his helm. “Not fair,” he muttered.

Wing shrugged, sheepishly. “It is fair, in a way. One violates the law, one must be punished. Otherwise, anarchy.”

“The law is stupid.”

Wing laughed, and part of Drift felt a feral pleasure at the sound. It was an open, ringing laugh, that brought them the optics of other patrons at other tables, but Wing was entirely unselfconscious. Wing reached one hand out, brushing it over Drift’s shoulder. “Thank you for that.”

Cloudburst’s mouth twitched, drawing Drift’s gaze. Jealous, Drift thought. Of course. Who wouldn’t be jealous? He had taken Wing away from Cloudburst. His spark throbbed with a dark velvet possessiveness.


	2. Sursum part 2

  
R  
IDW  
Wing/Drift  
pnp interfacing

“Thank you,” Wing murmured in Drift’s audio, later, as his hands slid around Drift’s shoulders, nuzzling against the back of Drift’s helm as he sat on the edge of the berth.

“For what?” Drift tried not to lean back into it, to show Wing how much he wanted the jet’s touch, how...tamed he’d become.

“For spending time with Cloudburst.”

“For behaving, you mean.”

A gentle laugh, vibrating against his helm. “For that, a little, yes. But also, because I think it does you good to see and hear from others.” The hands slid over the shoulders, wrapping down around the chassis. He could feel the jet’s body against his backframe, as one knee jutted beside him, Wing curling around his seated form.

Drift wanted to ask why. He wasn’t staying here. There was no point trying to win him over to this place. He dealt with Wing, because he had to, and, because....

He turned into Wing’s embrace, his mouth latching against Wing’s, pushing him down, hands hard and demanding on Wing’s frame. This...was the temptation--Wing’s warm willingness, desire offered without pain, without a fight, without having to be taken, forced. It was...heady and new and Drift still didn’t know how to deal with it. Other, of course, than that he wanted it.

Better than talking, anyway, he thought, as Wing’s hands slid over his frame, flirting with the line between Drift’s repairs and his old, battered dark frame. He growled, one hand cupping around Wing’s heavy helm, the other sliding down the jet’s side, fingers curling into the hip joint below the pelvic frame. Wing shivered beneath him.

Exquisite, novel. Drift felt desire surge across his net, his field crackling with charge, reaching out for Wing’s. Drift broke the kiss into a gentle bite on Wing’s lower lip, optics blue and smoldering into Wing’s lidded gold.

“Want you,” he growled.

A soft click in response: Wing releasing the interface hatch on his chassis.

Drift’s growl melted into a dark laugh, sliding his chassis over Wing’s. “Eager, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Wing said, simply, refusing to be embarrassed: another novelty for Drift--being wanted so...intensely. Wing’s hands wrapped around Drift’s shoulders, one thigh sleek and warm against Drift’s legs. His EM field, warm and plush, wrapped around Drift’s. “Something wrong with wanting to share pleasure?”

Drift didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the answer he knew from life--yes--was not the answer here. As if New Crystal City operated under its own rules, its own physics. His hand reached for Wing’s module, thumb glossing down the brushed metal, Wing gasping, optics shuttering closed in surprised desire. Drift snorted, sliding the module against his own hatch, rolling it around the socket, smirking at Wing’s arching frame, his own spiking and flaring EM. He seated the module with a firm click, twitching at the sudden rush of code, then the warm, happy pulse of Wing’s datastream over his net.

Wing arched up into him, hand clutching at the open hatch, for Drift’s module. Drift let him take it, watching the hand as it folded over the module, tucking down and plugging it into Wing’s own socket. He gave a satisfied sigh, his datastream pulsing hard and solid into Wing’s system, colliding with the lighter tempo of Wing’s.

He folded his arms down, resting his chassis on the jet’s, pressing their bodies together, ferociously, burying his face in the jet’s throat.

“What...do...?” Wing managed, his hands clinging to Drift’s rib struts.

Drift gave a growl, lifting his head, optics burning blue and intense. “Flying,” he said, voice hoarse. “Take me flying.”

Wing gave a whimper, nodding, and Drift barely had time to nuzzle back against the jet’s body when he felt the secondary connectors prickle alive and the request for access/override. He shot a ‘y’ command, shuddering as his sensornet was taken over and suddenly he wasn’t here, on a berth, but alone, soaring through a clear sky, wings he didn’t have cutting ribbons of mist through the sky, air cool and silky over his armor. A dream of flight, one of Wing’s memories, overwriting his datacapture, as he suddenly peeled up, aiming, it seemed, for the glowing sun, helixing just for the joy of movement.

It wasn’t just flight Drift wanted. The first time, yes, he’d been greedy for the bare experience. What grounder hadn’t held some vague longing for the utter defiance of gravity? But Wing’s flight was...Wing’s--sure and powerful and joyful, the emotion inextricable from the movement.

The fierce joy of the memory, the sensation of flight, freedom under open sky, no war, no violence, nothing but movement for the pleasure of it, swept over him, his datastream surging, then skipping, like a wild thing until Wing’s stream caught it and held it in a sweet, quivering synchrony. He yelled--not a cry, not a whimper, or moan, but a harsh sound, darkness being driven from him by the wash of light and space and openness. It...hurt, but it was a pain he would give anything to have.

He clutched at Wing, fiercely, chassis heaving to cool the overheating of his systems, feeling the dying throb of their datastreams. Wing panted beneath him, hands stroking, soothingly, over Drift’s shoulders, optics glowing gold and warm, mouth reaching to catch the last ecstatic pain from Drift’s lips.

[***]

Wing frowned. The expression looked unnatural on his face, as his internal comm clicked off.

“What?” Drift didn’t pretend to be busy. He was a prisoner, despite the, uh, the opportunities of his position. He didn’t have to be polite.

“I have...another hearing I must attend.”

Drift’s mouth twisted. “Stupid rules.”

“They’re required.” Wing shrugged, one of the spines from his wing frame twitching. “If you break the law, you must pay the penalty.” He dropped one knee beside Drift’s on the chair, leaning in to wrap his arms around Drift’s shoulders. If Drift had thought the gesture was to comfort him, he would have pulled away, snapping. But he could feel Wing’s need for some reassurance, and it was a small enough thing, after all, to be held. “I think,” Wing murmured, his mouth brushing Drift’s crest, “you’re worth it.”

Drift squirmed at the words. “Seem to be the only one,” he muttered.

“Really?” Wing let him pull away. “Cloudburst seemed to enjoy your company.”

“Just being nice.” Like all of you, he thought, sourly.

Wing tilted his head. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t introduce just anyone to Vosian tea.”

“You all trust too fast,” Drift muttered, aware that he was throwing the words like shrapnel, to keep Wing away, off balance, out of range. Where he couldn’t hurt Drift with this tantalizing dream.

Wing laughed, stroking one hand down Drift’s arm. “Trust seems to me to be one of those things like happiness: one can never have too much.”

Naive, foolish, stupid, Drift thought, but when he looked up at Wing, all he could do was give a lopsided smile.

[***]


	3. Sursum part 3

  
PG  
IDW  
Drift, OC (Cloudburst) refs to Wing/Drift  
More talking.

 

“It’s good to see you again,” Cloudburst smiled, approaching Drift where he lounged on the entryway to Wing’s quarters.“Though I wish it were under better circumstances.” 

Drift grunted. “Stupid laws you have.”He fell into step with the larger jet, out of the desire to move, to do something.

“Oh?” Cloudburst looked down at him. “How do your Decepticons handle these matters?”

Drift flinched. Oh he knew all too well.Rank disobedience got one shot in the head.“Also stupid,” he managed.He did not want to think about that, happening to Wing.“Not going to kill him, are they?”

“Kill?” The green optics blinked then turned sad. “No, Drift. We...aren’t like that, here.”

“Well then...?” He hated that he was asking.

“Punishment is counterproductive if one is not alive to learn the lesson, Drift.” He seemed...amused.

“Doesn’t sound like Wing’s learned yet, other than that he’s going to get punished.”

“That’s a lesson, too, though.”Cloudburst paused at an intersection. “So, Drift, what would you like to do?”

Drift shrugged. “Leave.”

Cloudburst gave him a sudden, surprised look, before bursting into a laugh. “Wing’s told me you were...insistent.”

Drift frowned. How...much did these two talk?

“How about we just...walk. I imagine you would at least appreciate movement.”

Paltry movement, trapped in a backwater city while the war was raging.Still.It wasn't Cloudburst's fault.He shrugged, continuing to pace next to the larger jet.

“What do you remember,” Cloudburst asked, “of before the war?”

“Nothing good.”

Cloudburst nodded.“Some of us fight to get back what we lost.It's...interesting to meet someone who is fighting for something he never had.”

Drift didn't know what to do with that. It sounded like a compliment. It felt like a compliment.

“Tell me, Drift, what world do you see?When the war is over?” Cloudburst swept his hand over the city before them, steering Drift into a bustling shopping district.“Help me--help us understand,” he amended, with almost too-much haste.

Drift lobbed a sharp look at him, which faded as his optics moved over the city level that splayed in front of them. “Don't know,” he said, finally. Something like this, he thought. Only, something he'd fought for. Something he'd earned.This wasn't right, because...it wasn't _his_.

And what did that do to all his suffering? All those kills he'd made? It made them butchery.

Cloudburst said nothing, studying a sign before him with way more attention than it could possibly have required, giving Drift his privacy, in a way. Everyone here, so...eerily polite.

“Would you like,” Cloudburst said, suddenly, as if aware he was breaking an awkward silence, and not very gracefully, as if that were some transgression, “to visit the hanging garden?”

Drift had no idea what that was, but, well, it was something to do, another corner of this pretty cage.Maybe, he thought, there was some weakness there. Some vulnerability, some access to the surface.He wondered sometimes why he was letting himself be bound by Wing's rules; by Crystal City's rules.

He didn't like any of the answers he came up with.They were weak answers: he selfishly wanted to see and know and feel....and then...Wing.His captor.His lover.

He nodded, and fell in beside the larger jet as they turned down one path.They walked in silence for a long while, the path snaking leisurely through a row of glittering businesses, storefronts colorful, clean.Was this what Cybertron had been like before the war?The parts he'd never seen while hiding in the gutters? It doesn't matter, he told himself; he still didn't belong.

But this time...he really wanted to.Jealousy burned like phosphorous over him but without, for once, the rancid fuel of hate underneath.He wanted this.And instead of the hostile glares he'd gotten the few times he had ventured uplevels back on Cybertron, the looks he got here were curious, but nothing more.

He barely noticed how Cloudburst slowed his pace, letting Drift look in the windows, study the ornamental pillars.Wing seemed intensely proud of his city, fiercely certain of it; Cloudburst's pride was quieter, letting it be seen instead of showing. It was still overwhelming.

“Ever feel trapped?” he blurted. “I mean, here, underground?” He shifted again, too aware that his question related...to himself. “As a jet, that is,” he added, lamely.

Cloudburst's easy laugh rumbled from his chassis. “Yes, of course.There's something about the open sky that...calls to us.But we have to sacrifice, all of us, something for the greater good.”

“But...,”The copperspun arch of the hanging gardens swallowed them, the shops and buildings falling away to a metallic, serpentine path, slicing an intricate pattern through space, each bend and twist marked with some crystal or sculpture or cultivated exotic plant.Beautiful, Drift supposed. Also, though, useless.Who ate because of this? How did this improve anything?

“If someone takes it from us, that is a wrong, Drift.But we have given this up, we made the decision of our own free will.”

Wing hasn't, Drift thought.But still...Cloudburst's point.“Never had anything to give up,” he muttered.

“That's not true,” Cloudburst said, stopping, turning. On either side of the narrow, gleaming path, nothing but air, punctuated by a network of thin lines of chain, a glittering web.“Honor.Ideals. Vision. You have these things, Drift. And anything you have can be given—or taken—away.” His optics burned.

Drift rocked back on his feet, Cloudburst's words striking home, like a blast of cannonfire. Cloudburst leapt forward, catching him, theblue arms wrapping around him just as one of Drift's heelplates scraped empty air.He felt the vibration of a larger engine—almost large enough to be Turmoil's—against him. :

“I was not attacking you,” Cloudburst said, quietly, his deep voice turning the air between them into something rich and plush.He stepped back, hauling Drift back onto the path, and Drift felt the warm huff of air from the jet's vents, and the soft brush of a mouth over his, before moving on his helm's rank crest. Cloudburst stepped back, his hands trailing longingly over Drift's frame, sending sparkling swirls of sensation, tempting, promising, over his net. “You have friends here,” Cloudburst added, optics glowing.

Drift shifted.Cloudburst couldn't mean...? No.Just what he'd said. Friends.Nothing more.

As if he had any idea how to do even that.

“Lost them along the way,” Drift muttered, twisting away.

Cloudburst squeezed his arm.“Then maybe you can find them again. Here.”

 


	4. Sursum part 4

  
R  
IDW  
Drift/Wing  
pnp interfacing  


 

“So,” Wing said, dropping onto the berth, resting his head on Drift's upraised hip. “Did you have a good day?”He was grinning, but Drift could see—or thought he could—the tension in the face, the plating around the optics taut.

And for him.For rescuing him.

“Yeah,” he managed.He reached one hand down, stroking the jet's shoulder.Should he tell him about Cloudburst?No.Ridiculous.Cloudburst hadn't meant anything—just pulling him back from falling over.He was reading too much into it.And why bother Wing?The white jet had enough on his mind.

Wing purred, taking the touch as an invitation, slithering up Drift's side, letting Drift's hand ride the motion, lower and lower until it glossed his white hip.His lip plates flirted with Drift's, gentle, and wanting.Vision, ideals, honor.Cloudburst's words echoed in Drift's head, things he'd thought as Wing's province alone, or...this whole place's.But not his.

Wing pulled away, optics tilted with concern. “I-is everything all right?Did something happen?”

Drift realized he'd not been responding, his mouth cold and unmoving under Wing's, distracted, wrapped inside himself.That wasn't fair.Honor.Ideals.Vision.

A stupid place to start, but a small enough one, he hoped. “Nothing happened,” he said, hooking his arm around Wing's chassis, hauling him over, pressing the white body against his.He twined his legs over Wing's, feeling the jet melt against him. Wing had given so much for him, for his beliefs.Wing was facing some punishment for holding true to what he believed, and still found energy, emotion, time to worry about Drift.Wing would endure for what he believed in.And Drift didn't have that. But he wanted it.He wanted that conviction, that strength that masqueraded as softness.

He let his hand gloss over Wing's torso, tracing the seams of the interface hatch in an open message, something burning in his chassis, bright and clean, as the lines of worry smoothed from Wing's face, replaced by a smile of eager arousal.

“Flying?” Wing whispered.

“No,” Drift said, opening the hatch gently, his fingers stroking the panel just to watch Wing shudder, “I want to show you something.”Who I am, what I know.  A poor recompense, but laying himself open before Wing was the best he could offer.

[***]

The echo of Wing's cry had faded from Drift's audio, the trembling wracking of the frame against him had stilled, and Wing had wormed his way up the berth, cradling Drift's helm against his belly, curled protectively around Drift's head, as if he could somehow shield Drift from his own memories.

He had shown Wing his first combat—the fierce burn of pride, the almost palpable web of purpose and loyalty between him and the other Decepticons, the bright phosphorus flare of the surety of his purpose: they were winning, they were changing Cybertron.

And Wing had taken the memory, like a fire raging over him, twitching and whimpering with each death, each mech who fell—with a burst of satisfaction—before Drift's guns.Drift felt Wing's exhilarated acceptance at parts of the memory, then the confused hesitation of others—killing ought not bring such joy.But he'd pressed on, feeding the memory, feeding pulses through his sensornet, pushing Wing to overload as relentlessly as he had pursued his enemies.

And Wing had yielded, dropping his resistance, and Wing had accepted, half curious, half swept away by emotions he’d never felt.

Wing had screamed, in desire and pain, confusion and emotion, clutching at Drift as though to save them both from drowning, his systems burning hot, overprocessing, before he'd slumped into this protective recharge.

Drift shifted, placing one hand on the white hip, letting himself sink into the comfort of the contact, and the notion that while Wing hadn't...understood, he hadn't judged, had felt his judgment blasted away. And Drift?Had taken the risk, bared himself before Wing.Honor.Ideals.He had shown what he knew of them, and felt the answering surges from Wing's own net, like calling to like, something buried deep under the surface, silted over, clouded, weighted down by the past, beginning to tear itself free.

And Wing's protective curl felt, somehow, suddenly less like captivity.“Cloudburst,” he murmured, “kissed me.”It felt...painful but raw. 

Wing stirred around him, one hand brushing his cheilic plating.“Mmmmm,” the jet said, drowsily. “You should enjoy each other.”And he curled closer, planting a kiss on Drift's helm, exactly where Cloudburst's mouth had moved, solicitous and tender.

 

 


	5. Sursum part 5

  
R  
IDW  
Drift, Wing, OC (Cloudburst)  
pnp interfacing,  
  


“I want to know what they're going to do with him.”Drift paced the vestibule. 

“He'll be given a choice,” Cloudburst said. His own optics kept leaping to the barred, ornate doors. 

“Choice,” Drift echoed. He folded his arms over his chassis, planting his feet, as though his truculence could change anything. 

“From exile too...lesser punishments.” Cloudburst frowned.

“Exile.”Drift narrowed his optics. “I'll go with him, then.”Take him back to the Decepticons. With Wing on their side?It would be some advantage.And he'd have Wing, situation reversed, his charge, his prisoner, the jet turning to him for comfort.The idea was...almost too tempting.

“He gets to choose, Drift,” Cloudburst corrected, mildly.“But your loyalty speaks much about you.”

Wasn't loyalty, Drift thought.Just.... He growled at himself.Weak.This place was making him weak, making him question...everything.

The door opened with a resounding series of clangs and wheels, the bolts riding back along their tracks, the heavy panels rolling aside with a ponderous weight.

Drift straightened.Wing, glowing white against the darker mass of the other Knights.His face was tense, tight, optics creased with worry. Even then, he forced a smile on, one that barely kindled as he approached the pair.

Wing tugged his shorter blades from their sheaths, holding them out to Cloudburst. “Will you hold these for me?”

“Penitence, then.” The large hands closed over the deactivated blades, fingers moving to stroke Wing's hands.

Wing nodded, and then moved closer, rising up on his toe plates to place a gentle, brief kiss on Cloudbursts's mouth.“I'll be fine.”

“One day you'll be wrong about that,” Cloudburst said, stroking a hand over the white shoulder.

“I'll only be wrong once,” Wing responded, like some old joke between them, the sad smile warming slightly. “Take care of Drift?”

Cloudburst nodded. Drift glowered. He did not need to be taken care of.  And that sounded...awfully final.

Wing turned to Drift, reaching over his shoulder.Drift stepped back, confused, as Wing held the heavy Sword out to him. “And will you keep this for me, Drift?”

He didn't want to take it, but he couldn't bring himself to refuse.The Sword was warm in his hands, from where it rested against Wing's humming systems.He looked down at it, the glyphs twining down the length of the blade, the jewel glimmering like a living thing.He looked up. “You're coming back for this, right?”

Wing laughed, leaning in to brush his mouth over Drift's.He tilted his head away, crest resting against Drift's.“Yes.I will be back for it. In the morning.” He tipped in again, the kiss more lingering this time, pulling at the lip plates, tasting Drift's mouth. One corner of Wing's mouth quirked in a smile. “You're worth it.”

No, Drift thought, as Wing pulled away, the gold optics lingering over his face, I'm not.

Another mech tapped him on the shoulder. “Time, Wing.”

Wing nodded, bowing his head.His hands, empty, weaponless, squeezed over Drift's on the blade.  “Don't worry, Drift. I'll be fine.” He followed the other mech.

“No!”Drift's hand closed over the Sword's hilt, moving to dash after the white jet.“This is--”

“--what must be done.” Cloudburst's arms were dark bands around Drift's torso.“Please.Don't make it worse.”

“Worse?”Drift struggled in Cloudburst's grip. He could break free, he could tear himself loose, easily.He'd fought his way off a Decepticon warship, after all. But he didn't want to kill Cloudburst. That...wouldn't solve anything.That would definitely make things worse.And Wing's words echoed in his cortex: You're worth it.

He wasn't.But he wanted to be.

[***]

Cloudburst brought him back to Wing's quarters, where they'd sat for tense cycles, Drift squatted on the floor, staring at the door, as though that were the enemy.He wanted to break the door, tear it from its track, vent his helpless rage on it.But it was Wing's and he had no right.

And he suspected Wing was getting enough broken tonight.

“He will be back. In the morning.” Cloudburst settled down next to him on the floor. He placed a cube between Drift's feet. “You should refuel.”

“Don't need it.”

Cloudburst laughed. “He'll need you in the morning. You'll need it for then.”

Drift's optics flicked over to the blue armor, down to the cube.“Stupid penitence.”

“It is our way.”

If Drift had expected resistance, hostility, he was disappointed.He took the cube, took a long sip, wishing he could smash ‘it is our way’ into a thousand glittering shards. 

“Drift,” Cloudburst began, leaning over.

“What.”He turned to the jet, startled to find the green optics nearly on top of his own, the mouth seeking his. His surprise was swallowed in the kiss, warm, soothing, not intruding, but wanting.

He pulled back, for a klik, stunned, and the thought of Wing, suffering, Wing alone, stabbed through him like the Great Sword's broad blade.But then his sensornet surged, electric and alive, and he found himself—traitorous, unfaithful—leaning into the kiss, twisting over, his free hand curling around Cloudburst's neck. It was inexplicable, inexcusable, but it was...as if his worry, concern, emotions so new to him he didn't know how to handle them, sought any channel of release they could, spilling over into his sensornet.“Wing,” he managed, a tissue thin protest.

“Doesn't want you to worry.He said that one of us in pain tonight was quite enough.”Cloudburst pulled back, giving Drift room, letting him make the choice.

Drift studied him. He had no doubt that Wing would say that, believe that. But what did he want?“Show me Wing,” he said, his voice husky, hand reaching to stroke the complicated shapes of Cloudburst's dark chassis. “Show me what you see.”His spark coruscated at the thought, as Cloudburst pulled him closer, arms around his shoulders, pulling him down along the floor.

Drift's hands roamed over the jet's chassis, so different from Wing's compact frame.And Cloudburst's larger hands were gentle, exploring, over his own back, the fingertips roaming over the seams in his armor, the alien, Decepticon design.Drift growled, finding Cloudburst's mouth, optics dimming, leaning into his desire, his own hands greedy on the broad span of the Vosian wings.

He hadn't realized until now how badly he'd wanted to touch them—the broad flat panels of metal, blades that cut through the air like defiance incarnate.

Cloudburst pushed off him, bracing on one straight arm over Drift's prone form, bent over to continue the kiss, his free hand stroking Drift's chassis, circling over the interface hatch, chirring as Drift's frame arched into the touch.

Drift's hands were less subtle, one tearing itself from the wings, to scrabble at the jet's hatch.

“You,” Cloudburst murmured, lifting his mouth, his green optics glowing against Drift's face, “are exquisite.”Drift sucked in a startled vent at the praise, barely feeling his hatch being slipped open, Cloudburst's gentle but sure hands on his module.

Cloudburst already had the memory file cued up when he seated his module into Drift's port, and Drift suddenly wasn't here: on the floor, with Wing suffering some voluntary torments for his sake, but swept up in a sort of radiance from the white jet, from Cloudburst's memories. Wing smiling, laughing, face intent and serious, the blue swords flashing through a twilit sky, Wing clinging to Cloudburst's frame, grinding his fear and worry, the black clouds of old memories, into the dark armor.

He found himself clinging, too, the resonances shaking something deep within him, Cloudburst's harmonics deep and strong, pushing him inexorably toward release.

“And you?” Cloudburst asked. “Show me your Wing.”

 


	6. Sursum part 6

  
R  
IDW  
Drift/Wing/OC (Cloudburst)  
pnp interfacing.  
The end of the seemingly never-ending saga. :P   
  


He woke, somehow on the berth,cycles later, twined with Cloudburst's limbs, soothed by the steady hum of the Vosian's systems. Different from Wing's but...he wanted them to be different.He remembered the memories Cloudburst summoned from him: Wing, bright and pure, sharp-edged and beautiful. That first, breathtaking sight of him, his drab-brown disguise burning off him—the surprise and shock of it. And he remembered the flood of emotion that Cloudburst had tapped, that had torn him, breathless, from himself, teetering on the verge of embarrassment, only to feel a well of understanding opening beneath him, Cloudburst knowing better than Drift did what he felt and what it meant.

The door opened: a slice of light across the floor.Drift sat up.Wing stood in the doorframe, a stark silhouette cut from the light of the corridor, against which his optics glowed only dimly, wrung out.  He looked...naked without the rise of the Great Sword behind him, and he seemed to wobble, as if the sharp light cut him. 

“Wing,” he said, rolling on the edge of the berth, wishing he dared to reach out for the jet.And the situation froze him:  He and Cloudburst, in Wing's berth...and what had passed between them. It felt disloyal. He felt...caught.

Wing stepped over the threshold, the darkness swallowing them entirely as the door closed behind him, winking down to a pair of tired golden optics.

“Come here,” Cloudburst said, gesturing out with his hand. It was an irrelevant invitation, Drift thought. Where else would Wing go, after all?But he saw the look of relief bloom over Wing's face at the words, approaching the berth, and Drift knew that there was something here beyond his grasp, but that the ritual of it was important: stating what seemed obvious—that Wing was wanted, worried about—mattered.

But he did know that he wanted to shift aside, making room for the white jet between them. Wing collapsed gratefully into the narrow space, shifting against them both, no comment, other than a soft blissful mew as he settled into the wash of ions between them.Drift could feel the jet's heat and his erratic, ragged EM field. He knew this—all too well—from the battlefield, and knew what kind of pain it portended.And Wing...was simply here, wanting to be touched.

Drift folded his arm over the chassis, feeling Wing sag down against him, the gold optics turning toward his face, chin tipping up, inviting a kiss.That Drift...could not refuse; did not want to, his mouth against the pain-heated lip plates as if magnetized.

Cloudburst's large hand rounded over one of the shoulder nacelles, skimming over the surface, as if petting the jagged, discordant EM field. Wing sighed into the kiss, accepting the caress with a sort of grateful shiver.

“Should let you recharge,” Drift said, pulling away, with regret, from the kiss, taming his hands to merely rest over the hip, fighting the surge of desire that swept over him.

“I need this more,” Wing said, clinging to Drift. Drift could feel the tattered EM licking over his armor, inviting, wanting, pain and discord feathering out, dispersing themselves against him.

And Drift needed it to, he realized--wanted, needed to feel Wing against him, as if ‘intact’ somehow meant ‘fine’.His hand squeezed into the hip before sliding down one white thigh, Wing purring at the contact.Cloudburst’s hand joined him, riding over the heated armor, soothing, stroking away the memories, inscribing new ones.

“May I?”Wing’s fingers traced the squared edges of Drift’s interface hatch.Drift managed half a smile, releasing the hatch.“I want good memories,” Wing murmured, his hand burning over the module.

Drift nodded, his own hand reaching for Wing’s hatch, scraping through his memory files for something...good. It was not a tag used very often in his memory files.“Don’t have many.”A few ancient ones, sharing a stolen ration with Gasket, staring up at the glittering spires of the city reaching above them.And each of those was limned with a strange bitterness, the knowledge of what came later. 

Cloudburst leaned over Wing’s frame, nuzzling Drift’s rounded cheekplates with a familiar courtesy. “Then we’ll have to make some.”

[***]

 

Drift thrashed against the broad chassis beneath him as the blue hands slicked in parallel down his thighs, the bass rumble of Cloudburst’s engines against his shoulders.Wing’s mouth was warm, wanting, his glossa tracing a hot line over Drift’s body, flicking at the divide between white and black, his hand curled protectively over Drift’s interface hatch, the connector cables threaded through his fingers.

Cloudburst sent another pulse of data through the connection, hard, almost to the point of pain. Drift arched up, throwing his head back, hands clawing at air, lost in a paroxysm of sensory input. Atop him, Wing gasped, the Direct Sensory Feed pushing the sensations straight through to Wing’s net.

Cloudburst leaned forward, nipping at Drift’s spaulder, his hands riding over both of the smaller mechs. Wing clambered upward, blazing kisses over Drift’s chassis in a line leading to Cloudburst’s mouth.They kissed beside him, around him, and Drift felt Wing’s weight on him, solid and precious, the EM field a soft, even blanket of ions around him that seemed to lick and caress into Drift’s systems like a thousand tiny glossae, warm sweet flames of trust and desire. He sagged back against the broad shoulder panel as Cloudburst’s link sent him the feed, and he could feel Wing’s mouth like phantom over his, Wing’s body twisting against the large blue palms, the heat and prickle of his own aroused EM field brushing into the larger jet’s.

He could feel the joy they had in each other, and in him; he writhed under it, into it, overcome as much by the physical stimulus as the gentle wash of acceptance, wanting, trust. And their desires came together, a crashing torrent, surging and merging their bodies, their systems, flooding them with a crystalline ecstasy that blanked every thought from Drift’s mind other than wanting to stay like this forever.

And for that brief moment, lying between the two, their silky panels and sure, trusting EM fields twining around him, sensor feeds merged, without boundary or border...he felt like he belonged.

 


End file.
